Melancholic
by Janissa11
Summary: Sequel to "Sanguine." Part two of the "Temperaments" series. Warnings for potentially triggering content and pre-slash material. Comments welcome.


Melancholic By EB ©2003  
  
"I don't want you to feel that you've been forced to come here."  
  
He looks at her. She isn't a bad person, he saw that right away. It's not that she's at fault here. He fidgets a little. "Not forced," he says slowly. "But a little cornered, yeah."  
  
Dr. Lopez smiles. It turns her rather ordinary face into a pretty one. "I'm sure no one intended to corner you," she replies. She has a very NPR- esque voice, and he wonders if she's done voiceovers. "But as I understand it this was a very difficult case for you. You were injured; there were two deaths at the scene. No one would blame you if you were having problems coping with it."  
  
"It was months ago. Why go over it now?"  
  
She glances down at a sheaf of papers on her desk, eyes flickering over something he can't see. It makes him uncomfortable. "Now is the only time we have," she says, still smiling. He suddenly doesn't trust that lovely smile. "Why don't we talk about it a little?"  
  
Nick sits up straight in his chair. His heart is speeding up, adrenaline pumping in response to whatever threat this may be. "If you don't think I'm psychologically fit, why don't you just say so?"  
  
"Nick, that's not at all what I'm saying." She looks alarmed.  
  
"Because look, I mean, I'm all right." It's his turn to try for the reassuring smile, and he thinks he's gotten it. "I won't lie and say it was easy," he adds, meaning it. "I had dreams about it. Bothered me, a lot. But we see shit like that every day. After a while you just put it behind you and go forward. What else can you do?"  
  
She nods. "So you believe you've successfully put this behind you?"  
  
"What, you mean, have I forgotten it? No. Have I dealt with it? Yeah. I think so." He sighs. "It's rough when a kid dies," he adds as evenly as he can. "And Zack Winthrop, he was just eight years old. I wouldn't be a human being if I said that didn't bother me. But nothing I do is gonna bring him back. I can beat myself up for the rest of my life, but he'll still be dead."  
  
"Is that what you're doing? Beating yourself up over his death?"  
  
"No. No, I didn't say -- I don't mean I'm doing that. Not now."  
  
"Have you?"  
  
He stares at her, and for a second he can't think of how to answer that. Not without saying things he doesn't want to say, doesn't need to say. Yes? But that's water under the bridge, it's been dealt with. So it landed him in the ER, but he sure as hell isn't going to mention that one, and if Grissom let that cat out of the bag when he set up this little meeting, well, hell is what he'll have to pay. Patient confidentiality, Griss, you tell about that little situation and we're gonna have ourselves a heart-to-heart.  
  
"I regret that I couldn't have done more," he says finally, carefully. "I know, deep down, that there wasn't any way to do that. But I can't help wishing there had been."  
  
Her generous mouth quirks in another pretty smile. "Well, that was a good quote for the record," she says dryly. She leans back in her chair. "If I tell you that this session is conducted in complete privacy, would you feel more willing to talk?"  
  
"You're evaluating me," he returns in the same calm voice. "Private or not, something of your thoughts are going in some file somewhere. Even if I had something to say, well, in all honesty I'm not sure you're the person I'd choose to say it to. With due respect."  
  
"This isn't a psych exam, Nick. This is a counseling session, pure and simple. What you say in here is confidential. I'll stake my license on it, with absolute conviction."  
  
"Okay," he says pallidly. "But I'm not lying. I feel all right. And six months from now I'll be all right, too. I mean that."  
  
Her eyes don't believe him. That's all right. He knows the truth.  
  
"So how'd it go?"  
  
He liked it a lot better when Grissom wasn't up in his face. Except it still feels oddly good, at the same time. If only the man had any idea of his effect on people.  
  
Then again, maybe it's better if he doesn't.  
  
"All right," Nick replies, forcing a smile. "But I'm okay, Griss. Really."  
  
Grissom's eyes aren't completely convinced, either. That's not so all right. Jesus, what's it take? A signed affidavit? "Good. Seeing her again?"  
  
"Not sure. We didn't set another appointment."  
  
Now Grissom definitely looks unhappy. "Nick --"  
  
"Look, if she thought I needed one she'd have said, right?" He waits for Grissom's slow nod. "So she must have thought I was doing okay. And I am. Never better."  
  
He grins, and although the dissatisfied look isn't gone, Grissom nods again, and finally goes off to do his thing. Nick sits there, slides forgotten on the microscope, and sighs. Something to be said for scaring the shit out of someone, evidently. Something to be said, if you wanted that person worrying after you for the rest of your foreseeable life.  
  
Not that he's complaining, on some scores. Kinda nice to catch the Big Man's eye, even if it isn't in any really important way. Depending, of course, on how you defined "important."  
  
The night goes pretty smoothly, but for the fact that he's stuck by his lonesome sifting through rapidly liquidating garbage, looking for a missing person. God forbid he should actually find the guy here; at this fermentation rate there won't be a body left, just a floating collection of bones. He's still working when quitting time rolls around, elbows-deep in goop, and only thinks to look at uncover his watch when the sun starts glaring over the horizon into his eyes.  
  
Tough choice. Keep going, on the off chance that Mr. Valdez is actually under this disgusting crap someplace and not long enough to become the various bits of Mr. Valdez. Or quit, because if the guy IS here he probably isn't intact anyway, and what difference would a day make?  
  
Or not so tough, as a tendril of pity lances through his belly. No telling what kind of guy Valdez had been, but he's left a passel of cute kids and an extravagantly nice wife behind, and they deserve to know if they still have him in their lives.  
  
He finally gives up around 10:30. The day isn't just shaping up to be a scorcher; hit that and passed it by 9:30. And the heat isn't doing anything good to the smell at this dump. The foreman at the site takes pity on him and lets him shower at their facility, and then he takes another much longer one back at the lab. He can still smell it, but nothing for it; he's as clean as he's getting.  
  
Not even Grissom is still at the lab at this late hour, and realizing that, he feels the hours of brute labor slam into him like a foot of wet cement. He clocks out, digs his cell phone out while he trudges out to the truck. He's got six messages, which is kind of surprising.  
  
Inside the truck he listens, and the weariness is suddenly gone as if it had never been.  
  
His alarm goes off at four, as usual. He's already awake, of course, but that's standard, too. Wearing his robe and padding barefoot to the kitchen, he hears his phone ringing while the coffee's still brewing. He finds it stashed in the jacket he wore last night and fishes it out.  
  
"Grissom."  
  
There isn't anything for a moment, just long enough for him to draw a breath to ask who this is, and then Nick's unmistakable voice. "Grissom, it's Nick. I go -- I gotta have some time off."  
  
Well, no beating around the bush on that one. Gil goes over to the coffee pot and starts pouring. "Kind of short notice," he observes.  
  
Nick sniffs wetly. "It's my dad," he says in a thick voice. "I gotta go home."  
  
Gil sloshes a little coffee on the counter, hastily stowing the pot. He leans against the counter, feeling his stomach drop. "Your father? What happened?"  
  
"He had a heart attack last night. Jamie said he's gonna be okay, but he's in surgery right now, and I can't BE here, I gotta go home." He's not quite crying, but Gil can feel him about an inch from it. There's an edge to his voice Gil doesn't like at all. "Is that okay?"  
  
"Jesus, of course it's okay. Have you booked a flight?"  
  
"Y-yeah. Earliest I could get, leaves in a couple of hours."  
  
"You have a ride to the airport?"  
  
Nick mumbles something about long-term parking and Gil interrupts him. "You don't sound like you should drive. I'll pick you up in an hour."  
  
"I'm so scared, Gil," Nick whispers. "He's my dad."  
  
"I know," Gil says slowly. "I know, Nick."  
  
He slams his coffee after he hangs up, and goes to take a fast shower. It's half an hour to Nick's place, a route he remembers with icy clarity from a trip not so very long ago. He makes it in twenty minutes this time.  
  
Nick's eyes are red and his face is white and tight with anxiety. He has an absurdly small carryon as his only luggage, but who changes clothes that much while they're camped out in a hospital waiting room? "J-Jamie's already there," he tells Gil, and drops his keys twice before he can get the front door locked behind them. "She's gonna pick me up."  
  
"Good." Gil pauses on the sidewalk, gazing at Nick. "He'll be okay, Nicky," he says gently.  
  
Nick's face crumples, and it's impossible not to hug him. He barks a few short sobs against Gil's shoulder, body bowstring-tight with fear and tension, and then steps back, wiping his face with the backs of his hands. The boyish gesture makes Gil's throat hurt. "Thank you," Nick says, a small smile coming and going on his lips. "I feel -- I'm so damn far away."  
  
"You'll be there in a few hours. Come on, let's get moving."  
  
Traffic is kind to them, and Nick makes his flight with fifteen minutes to spare. In the concourse Gil hands him his bag, and gives him a brisk smile. "Keep me posted, okay? We'll be thinking about you."  
  
Nick nods. "I don't know how long this'll be. I mean --"  
  
"Take as long as you need. Don't worry about us. You do what you need to do."  
  
"Okay." Nick ducks his head and coughs. "Thanks."  
  
"See you soon."  
  
Nick walks away slightly bowed, as if he's got a heavily laden pack on his back. Gil watches until Nick disappears down the jetway, and then turns to head back to his truck.  
  
Jamie's right at the gate when he gets off the plane. The sight of her fills him with such an amazing blast of relief his knees actually go a little weak. She's smiling, but she has tears in her eyes, flinging herself at him with the very same expression on her face he knows he's wearing.  
  
"Thank God you're here," she says against his shoulder. Her arms are strong around him. "It's so good to see you."  
  
He nods, and has to swallow hard before he can speak. "How's Dad?"  
  
Jamie draws away a little, and now she's got tears on her face, and her smile looks stronger. "He's gonna be okay. Surgery went fine. Quadruple bypass."  
  
"Shit."  
  
She takes his bag from his protesting fingers, and links her free arm with his, leading him forward. "Mama's doing okay too," she tells him while they head into the sea of people on the concourse. "Now that he's talking, it's like she remembered how to breathe."  
  
"She sounded so bad when I got that message." Nick shakes his head. "Freaked me out, I thought he was dead."  
  
"She's worried about you. So's Daddy."  
  
He sighs. "Why would they worry about me? They got enough to think about."  
  
"You're the baby. You know how it is."  
  
Soon enough they're in Jamie's rental car, sitting restlessly waiting to pay their way out of the airport. Nick glances over at her. His sister's only ten months older than he is, and yet she has never been the baby. Not even when she WAS the baby, he suspects. Jamie's just always been pretty capable, as long as he can remember. When they were kids people had assumed they were twins, and sometimes they'd hadn't disabused them of the notion. Near enough to almost BE twins.  
  
"How's Chicago?" he asks, when they finally break free and head for the highway.  
  
"Good. Chicago's good." She casts him a brief smile. "How's Vegas?"  
  
"Still there."  
  
"Everybody's here. Cabe got in this afternoon. They're all at the hospital."  
  
He nods, facing forward and feeling his belly clench with too-familiar anxiety. "Good."  
  
They go straight to the hospital. Jamie parks in a cavernous garage and looks over at him. "You okay?" she asks softly.  
  
When he meets her dark concerned eyes he sees the knowledge there. Just like always; he never could hide much from her. Never much wanted to, although she's the only one of his many siblings he ever trusted that far. Far enough to be able to handle his secrets. There's a lot in that question that she won't have to say. He hears it loud and clear anyway.  
  
"Don't worry about me," he says. It isn't the right thing to say, but it'll have to do.  
  
Jamie sighs. "Let's go see Daddy."  
  
"Anybody talked to Nick lately?" Catherine asks.  
  
Gil looks up and shakes his head. "Just the one call when he got in. But his father's recovering."  
  
She watches him. "So when'll he be back?"  
  
"Soon, I imagine. I'm not sure."  
  
She nods and walks away. He gazes after her, but he's seeing Nick's tight tense face, eyes bright with tears. His family will take care of him. Surely. He's okay.  
  
But it never leaves the forefront of his mind, the other knowledge, the things he hasn't told Catherine and won't. The images that he shoves away 98 percent of the time, but haunt him in those brief moments of weakness. Nick's gray face, and all the blood. If he'd waited another hour, Nick would have been dead. Suicide, that's what Robbins would have put on Nick's death certificate. Almost certainly.  
  
Gil leans back in his chair and takes off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  
  
When he clocks out that morning he sees Catherine in the hallway. They walk out together, blinking in the brilliant morning sun.  
  
"I got him on his cell," she says while she's rummaging for her keys.  
  
"Nick? How's he doing?"  
  
"Sounded pretty good. He said his dad's doing great, getting out of the hospital today."  
  
Gil nods. "Wonderful. Any word on when he's coming back?"  
  
She fishes out her keys and puts on her sunglasses. "Said he'd call you, but probably tomorrow or the next day if everything goes well. Said his family's driving him nuts already."  
  
"Then it must be going well," Gil quips, and Catherine chuckles. "See you later, Catherine."  
  
"Later."  
  
The call comes about an hour later. He's just about to go to bed, and fights down a yawn when the phone rings.  
  
"Hey. Sorry I haven't called."  
  
"Not a problem. How's your dad?"  
  
"Good." He can hear the smile in Nick's voice. "Scared the shit out of us, but he's gonna be fine. If he'll stop eating crap and smoking."  
  
"Ah. So are you coming back soon?"  
  
"Yep. I'm booked tomorrow morning. Want me back tomorrow night?"  
  
"Take it easy. I've got it covered tomorrow. The next day'll be fine."  
  
"Good. Things going okay?" Nick asks, sounding as if he belatedly remembered to say the words.  
  
"Things are fine. No worries. See you when you get back. You need me to pick you up?"  
  
"Nah, I'll grab a cab. Thanks."  
  
"No problem. Take care, Nicky."  
  
"You, too."  
  
He hangs up and sits, thinking.  
  
It's odd being in his parents' house. He hasn't seen much of it during his short trip; he's spent the bulk of his time at the hospital. But his room is basically unchanged, and it's very weird to take a trip back in time, seeing who he was the last time he called this place home.  
  
"You know, Mama commandeered everyone else's rooms," Jamie says from the doorway.  
  
Nick turns and blinks at her. "Commandeered?"  
  
She walks in, looking around. "Made them into different rooms. Guest bedrooms, I think Jennifer's room is her study. Daddy got Cabe's room. Did you see it? The library?"  
  
He nods. "Makes sense." He goes back to stuffing his clothes in his bag. "Might as well use the space. Not like we're all gonna move back in."  
  
"Hopefully not." Jamie flops down on his old bed and grins at him. "This is so weird, you know? It's like a time warp. Look at all this stuff. All your baseball things, your posters." She glances up at the walls. "You had such bad taste in bands."  
  
"Speak for yourself, Miss Duran Duran."  
  
She laughs. "They were at least pretty cool for a while."  
  
"I guess."  
  
She doesn't say anything else, and when he finishes packing he sits down next to her. Her hand on his back is cool and terribly comforting.  
  
"You doing okay?" she asks softly.  
  
He glances at her and nods. "I'm okay."  
  
"They never wanted to let you go. That's why Mama couldn't take your room apart. I think she thought maybe her baby was coming back."  
  
"I'm not a baby," he says uncomfortably.  
  
She props herself up on her elbows and gives him a square look. "To her you are," she says in a calm voice. "She worries."  
  
Nick sighs and lies back on the bed. The ceiling is so familiar it's almost shocking. All those years of waiting to sleep, listening to the sounds of all of them settling in, the feet on the floor, the bathroom doors opening and closing. It's so quiet now. "I wish she wouldn't."  
  
"I told her not to. I told her you were doing well. Are you?"  
  
"I told you I was."  
  
"So tell me like you believe it."  
  
It stings, and he sits up, shaking his head. "Look, don't start, Jamie, okay? Just because this room is stuck in the 80s doesn't mean I am. I'm fine."  
  
"Show me your arms."  
  
He recoils, staring at her. "What?"  
  
She looks sad, and determined. She draws herself up to a seated position, her brown eyes locked with his own. "Show me you're not doing anything to yourself," she says.  
  
For a second he wants to. For a second he wants it to be 1984 again, and have her and Dad and Mom taking care of him. Before the worry got stifling, before everything got so bad that finally all he could do was run away. College Station, Nevada.  
  
For a second he almost does it. And then he stands up, feeling his teeth clenching in a familiar scowl. "We need to get going. I'm gonna miss my flight."  
  
"You told me about the case. The one with the little boy." Somehow she's gotten right in his face, and he didn't even hear her get up. "Tell me you didn't bleed for him," she says, and there are tears in her eyes, out of nowhere. "Because I heard it in your voice then, and I heard it again a couple of days ago, and when I think about you there in Nevada with nobody with you, I feel like I'm going to go crazy, Nicky. Please tell me you're not doing it again. Please."  
  
He could never stand up long against this, this total honesty, pure emotion Jamie could turn on. He can't now, either. His throat feels painfully tight. "I'm okay," he manages, and she grabs him around the waist, hugging him fiercely. Her hair smells like the same Pantene she's always used, like a breath of years ago, like this fossilized room and this house that is too familiar, too much of a reminder of the things that happened so long ago. He closes his eyes and holds her as tightly as she's holding him. "If it gets bad," he whispers thickly, "I promise I'll call you."  
  
She doesn't draw away, but she hits him on the back with her fist, not to hurt, just for emphasis. "Promise me," she hisses. Another thump, harder. "Swear it. Swear."  
  
"I swear. I'll call you. I will."  
  
She sobs once, and then pulls back, wiping her eyes and not quite looking at him. "Come on. We need to go."  
  
He watches her walk out of the room, and slowly reaches down to pick up his bag.  
  
For the first time in longer than he can remember, he's truly hand-picking assignments. It's probably not necessary, but he can't shake the impulse. Does Nick need protecting? On the face of it he seems fine. But Gil is too aware now, too watchful.  
  
So he's giving Nick the crap work. The baby stuff, the easy dull cases that Nick hates and Gil can't stand not giving him. And Nick isn't complaining, and that's making everything even worse.  
  
The other shoe drops two weeks after Nick's return from Dallas. And it doesn't help even remotely that Gil's been feeling its imminent arrival the whole time.  
  
"Where's Nick?" he asks, frowning around the break room.  
  
Warrick waves a sandwich at him. "Running late, I guess. Want me to call him?"  
  
"No. That won't be necessary." Gil clears his throat. "Feel like heading over to the Bellagio? Robbery."  
  
He gives out the rest of the assignments and then makes a beeline for his office. Nick doesn't answer his phone. Not the home number, not the cell. And Gil knows, right then. All the promises are crap. And he's known this all along. Because cutting is an addiction, isn't it? Just as bad as any other addiction. It isn't so easy as just saying you'll quit. And Nick's had a shitty few months. Almost losing his father is only the icing on a truly terrible cake. If there were ever a time to backslide --  
  
"I've got to run an errand," he tells Sara in the hallway. "Call me if you need anything."  
  
She blinks at him. "Anything I can do?"  
  
"No. Thanks. I'll be back later."  
  
"Okay. You want --"  
  
"Later, Sara."  
  
He drives inside a bubble of too much knowledge. He's not reliving a few months ago. It won't be the same. He's sure of that.  
  
What he isn't sure is whether or not it won't be worse.  
  
Nick's truck is still parked in front of his building. And he doesn't answer the door, not for a very long time. Gil's thinking about hunting down the manager again, feeling a gut-sinking kind of déjà vu, when he hears the lock turning. Nick opens the door slowly, and Gil swallows and can think of nothing to say.  
  
Nick turns and walks back inside, leaving the door ajar.  
  
They sit in that same silence at the table, facing each other. Nick's dressed in the robe Gil remembers, long sleeves hiding whatever secrets Nick has been keeping. His face is pale, and oddly expressionless.  
  
"What's going on?" Gil asks softly. "Talk to me, Nick."  
  
Nick doesn't say anything for so long, he almost believes he won't say anything at all. And then he draws a hitching breath. "Don't make me stop," he whispers.  
  
Gil swallows. "Jesus. Nick --"  
  
Nick's eyes are gleaming with sudden, shocking tears. "I can't do without it," he says in a raspy voice. "I don't know how."  
  
"You can," Gil says urgently, leaning forward. "Nick, you can. I swear to God you can."  
  
Nick reaches up to wipe his eyes, and the sleeve of his robe slips back to reveal a white bandage on his arm. "You don't understand, nobody ever understands. I don't want to do without it. I don't. It's MINE."  
  
His heart is beating too fast. There is nothing he can say to that, nothing, because maybe Nick's right. Maybe he can't understand. He has no way to comprehend what sort of catharsis cutting his own skin offers to Nick. It's too outside his experience, light-years away.  
  
"Nothing else works," Nick whispers. His hands lie limp on the table. "I told them, and nobody ever listened. Nobody ever believed me."  
  
"Who did you tell? Your parents?"  
  
"There's no place else for it all to go. I can't keep it inside me. It hurts. It hurts too bad."  
  
"Nick, listen to me." He risks touching one of Nick's hands, and flinches at how cold it is. "I know it hurts," he says quietly, and means it. "I know. You've got to find some other way. I don't -- Nobody wants to lose you. Do you understand? We can't understand it, but you can maybe understand us. We don't want you to keep hurting yourself."  
  
Nick's eyes are still starry with tears, but he's frowning a little. "It doesn't hurt. Don't you get it? It doesn't hurt me."  
  
"It does, but you can't see it. I can't -- I don't know how to help you, Nick. I want to, so badly, and I don't know how. But please, try to see it from my point of view. From your family's. When you cut yourself you cut us, too. Maybe you don't hurt yourself, but you hurt us. We bleed, too, Nicky."  
  
He's prepared for it, but it still hurts when Nick bursts into tears. Hard, coughing sobs, immediate and crowding one on the next. It's a bitter, painful kind of weeping, and it makes Gil's heart ache to see it. He draws back and then stands up unsteadily, walking around the table and absolutely unsurprised when Nick's arms go around his waist. He stands motionless but for his hand, petting Nick's matted hair and staring at the opposite wall, unseeing. Nick's tears wet his shirt, hot on his skin.  
  
Where has it come from, this terrible pain in his chest? This series of what can only be called impulses, aberrations for him, that have suddenly pulled Nick into his life, changed him from a colleague to a friend, someone whose continued existence -- healthy existence -- has become so desperately important? He sees suffering every day, has inured himself to it for decades, and yet if it were possible to ease Nick's pain he would do so in a millisecond, give whatever it takes, sacrifice, lie, cheat or steal, if only it would make Nick whole.  
  
Gil curves his arm around Nick's head, and closes his eyes.  
  
END 


End file.
